


Of Stolen Breath and Reclamation

by Zykaben



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Snow White Fusion, Canon Asexual Character, Fairy Tale Elements, I'll be tagging as I go along, M/M, Monsters, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben/pseuds/Zykaben
Summary: It's just like Martin Blackwood's luck to have enraged the (evil) king through compassion alone. Thankfully, Jonathan Sims and Timothy Stoker are there to help.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 24
Kudos: 54





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH A SELF-INDULGENT TMA FIC LADS.
> 
> This was inspired by a conversation in the RQ server where people were talking about which dress would fit which TMA character and Martin got assigned [this dress.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/441923339418730498/657799645296328704/product-hugerect-2826261-395768-1538789304-f879e884e590f8edfb18c920060b874e.jpg) My brain screamed Disney Princess and, well, here we are.
> 
> This is probably gonna be a longer fic, so bear with me as I go on this journey. I'm looking forward to how it turns out. Also, the title may or may not change because boy am I bad at those.
> 
> And, without further ado, happy reading!

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a man with an empty heart and eyes of fog. He was a cold and cruel man, one with a voice that was as sharp and chill as a winter day and who was as uncaring and vicious as the sea. He cared only for himself, as much as he cared about anything, and loathed the presence of others, their very existence swamping over him like hot tar. He had long ago forgotten the face of his mother and father, his siblings long since fleeing him and his roiling fog.

The empty-hearted man felt neither joy nor sorrow, neither love nor hate. The only thing that ever brought him even the smallest amount of peace—something almost bordering on contentment—was the misery of others. As much as a man such as he could, he was fascinated and delighted by people mourning the death of a loved one, grieving over the loss of a lover, and crying at their own self-hatred. It was those who were alone that he found the best to watch; their pain was always so much sweeter.

Eventually, as all things do, the man grew older. His hair faded to an ashy grey, his skin began to wrinkle, and his joints creaked when he moved. Yet not even the steady march of time could fill his heart or clear the fog in his soul.

The man was not fearful of death, not in the way that others were. He was certain that when his time came, he would greet it with open arms, perfectly alone as he drew his final breath. But he did not wish for that time to be _soon._ There was still so much left to do, so much power to gather, so much pain to inflict.

And so, against all sense and advise, the man with the empty heart went to the Dark Forest in search of a monster.

He went in alone. He had never wished for company and, even if he had, he knew that no one else would be desperate enough to enter a place where magic swarmed and monsters were born. No one who rightly feared death would ever dare to venture in.

Very soon, the man found a monster, a beast of mist and sand and silent screams, a creature of lovelessness and all that was forsaken. The man smiled, a hollow and broken thing, for he had found the perfect monster.

“What brings you to this place, lone king? What is it that you seek?” the monster asked, softer than a whisper and mist singing of oblivion.

“I seek a way to bring about the suffering of thousands,” the man replied, straining his ears to hear the sweet sound of nothing that bled from the monster. “I wish to stay youthful so that I may bear witness to the myriad of scars that pain and loss and grief leave on every living being. I want to fill myself with their misery.”

The monster had not heard a request such as this before, though it had heard only very few in the first place. A man who sought to cause the kind of anguish that it itself so relished? A mortal whose goal was to cause that which it loved to feed on? It would have taken a good and strong-willed person to resist such an offer. And though it was strong and willful, it was certainly neither good nor a person.

“Then that is what you shall have,” the monster said, mute and monotone. “So long as you shall rule, you shall drive your people apart. They shall not feel joy, nor shall they feel love. They are to be isolated, even from those with whom they are meant to be closest. Isolate all who you can. Sever every connection. Feed that which is Lonely. Do this, and time shall no longer touch you—your kingdom shall be yours until every last star in the sky falls, perhaps even longer. Does this please you?”

“It does not,” the man answered honestly, “but it is all that I could have ever wished for.”

“Then it shall be done,” the monster muttered, its voice utterly silent.

And so, the empty-hearted man left the Dark Forest that day, no happier or more satisfied than he was when he had first entered. But he was changed, his fog overflowing from him and following his every step, threatening to empty the hearts of all that it touched.

The king returned to his kingdom and set about his work. There was so much to do.

* * *

The people who found themselves living in the kingdom of Solum were miserable. They were downtrodden and poor and _alone._ Friendship was a rarity that was always quick to rot and fall apart, leaving nothing but bitter memories and muffled sobs that everyone pretended not to hear: not because they cared, but because they could not care _less._ Families were only such by blood and proximity. Oh, parents would certainly try to love their children and some of them would even succeed for a short while. But the crushing weight of their own isolation, the resentment that built because no one had loved _them,_ how their children would come to prefer solitude to their own parents and siblings—there was never a chance for love to bloom, let alone _flourish._ And if it did? Well, someone had come up with the idea of banishment for a reason.

Peter Lukas wasn’t exactly pleased or happy with all of this, but he could admit that he very much liked it.

He wandered the empty halls of his palace, his footfalls against the opulent marble floor the only sound he could hear. Intricately carved pillars lined the walls, absolutely pristine and covered in dust. The windows had long since been boarded up. Peter had considered finding someone who could block them up properly, fill in the holes until there was no view to the outside world, but that would have required people to come into the palace. People who would have had to come back, day after day, until every window was no more. People who he would have to _see,_ to _hear._ People that might try to engage in a conversation with him out of some delusion of kindness, people who might _greet_ him.

No, the boards would do for now. They had for centuries, after all.

Finally—too soon—Peter reached the grand set of two doors that led into the throne room. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose. He opened his eyes again and squared his shoulders back before he pushed the doors open.

A man, lanky and blond and unbearably smug, smiled at him from where he sat primly on Peter’s lone, monochrome throne. His voice was smooth and mocking. It grated on Peter’s ears. “Conrad. Always lovely to see you.”

“It’s Peter now,” Peter said. “You should know just as well as I how names change, _Jonah_.”

“Then I needn’t remind you that I am now Elias, dear _Peter_.”

Peter might have rolled his eyes if he were the type of mine who was inclined to do so. He did not care enough to even try. He simply sighed into stagnant air. “What news do you have, Elias?”

Elias quirked a brow. “Why, getting right to business are we? Don’t you wish to know how your sole advisor has been?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Really now,” Elias sighed, making a show of leaning to one side and placing his elbow on the silver arm of the throne, propping his head up on his hand. “If you keep saying things like that, I’ll start to think that you only care about the services I offer you.”

“I don’t care about you beyond your position as head of the Watchers Guild,” Peter said, honest and blunt and flat.

“Just using me for your own ends, then. How cruel.”

“Yes.”

Elias sighed again, louder and longer than his last. “You can’t even bother to play along, can you?”

“No. I don’t see why you try to do this every time.”

“Some variety is nice,” Elias said. “A verbal barb here or there makes conversations so much more… _interesting._ But then, you don’t care about interesting conversations. Why, you don’t care for conversations at _all,_ if I recall correctly.”

Peter closed his eyes and counted to three very slowly in his head. When he opened them, Elias was still there. A pity. “You do. So if we could please hurry this along, that would be much appreciated.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Elias drawled, voice dripping derisive scorn. He pushed himself off of Peter’s throne and bowed irreverently, far too deep and sloppily for it to be taken as a gesture of respect. “Your throne awaits.”

Peter made his was past Elias, taking the few small steps up until he stood in front of his throne. It was a grand thing, its cushions as black as a starless and moonless night and its frame a silver so bright that it was nearly white. It was comfortable to sit in, he was sure. Not for him—Peter couldn’t really feel such things—but Elias always seemed eager to perch on it. Or perhaps that was just a product of Elias’ arrogance and obsession with power. Peter couldn’t be bothered to give it any more thought than he already had.

He turned and took a seat. He gestured for Elias to speak. “What news do you have for me?”

“Nothing substantial,” Elias admitted. “Things have been progressing as they always have—that is to say, they’re going well. A small group of teenagers that fancied themselves friends were going to attempt to throw a party of sorts. We were ready to step in and stop that before it began, of course, but we didn’t need to. The six of them had all fallen out with each other by the end of the week. There was a family of three that we’ve been watching for a while—their daughter is going to become an adult soon and while she has a rather cantankerous relationship with her mother, she and her father have remained rather close throughout her life. Things that haven’t devolved by now tend not to, so we’ve been looking into having the father removed. Nothing public, just grabbing him while he’s out and quietly sending him off. That should help further deteriorate whatever is left of her bond with her mother, which is wonderful news. Is that course of action something that would please you?”

“No. Take them as soon as you believe is best.”

And so Elias continued, Peter giving his approval when it was suitable to do so. He was already prepared to voice his dissent, to tell Elias to come up with a better approach to the problem, but he never had to. Working alongside of someone for decades—or was it centuries now?—tended to lead to an understanding of sorts. Peter despised the necessity of it, of needing Elias and having to work _together_ and _talk,_ but it was the price that he had to pay for things to keep running as smoothly as they did.

“—And that’s the last of it, really,” Elias finished. “Nothing out of the ordinary, all said and done. Just another day in the loneliest kingdom of the world.”

Peter hummed noncommittally.

Elias stared at Peter for a few seconds before he straightened his posture ever so slightly and began to walk towards the exit as he spoke. “Well, if that’s all, then I do believe that I should be heading out. Duties to attend to and people to watch and all that rot—”

“Wait.”

Elias stopped mid-step. The deafening silence that followed was music to Peter’s ears while it lasted. Slowly, Elias turned around to face Peter. “You never ask me to wait.”

“You never try to leave in such a hurry.”

“And what? You cared enough to ask?” Elias scoffed.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Care is too strong a word. I do want to know what you’re so eager to get to. You don’t _rush,_ Elias.”

“Just my own personal pet project, I assure you.”

“Ah,” Peter nodded, “your perfect monster.”

“The Archivist, yes.”

“I still can’t quite believe that you found someone foolish enough to believe your lies,” Peter commented idly. He noted the small twitch Elias’ face gave at that with disinterest. “Not a slight against you, of course. But trying to groom someone into being a monster that _knows_ and _sees_ while keeping them in the dark? Quite the balancing act.”

“We can’t all stumble upon the perfect beast to make a deal with,” Elias said.

“If I’m not wrong, you made a rather similar deal—”

“You know what I meant,” Elias said, a slight hiss seeping into his voice. It was gone when he continued, “You know that my _abilities_ did not come from that deal, only my… conditional immortality, shall we call it.”

Peter sighed. “I still don’t see why you yourself couldn’t simply—”

“Because, Your _Majesty_ ,” Elias sneered, “I’ve given up as much of myself as I can afford to give. You know as well as I do what a slippery slope this is—I have no designs on becoming a mindless beast. My powers, my _sight,_ is only useful to me while I am fully in control. I need someone else—some _thing_ else—to be my eyes. A monster to see even further than I could dream of. A beast of great power under _my_ control. Or have you just _forgotten_ about this?”

Elias’ face was screwed up in frustration by the end of his rant, small splotches of red forming high on his cheeks and eyes glowing an eerie green. Peter was nearly surprised by how upset he was.

“I remember quite clearly you mentioning you wished to create a monster that would be under your control,” Peter said, slow and calm, “but losing yourself—that is new.”

Some of Elias’ irritation left his frame at that. “What? How is that new?”

Peter shrugged. “I have only seen one monster before. I did not do any research beyond how to find one that could help me. And you have not shared many details on your ‘Archivist’.”

Elias muttered something under his breath that sounded like “of course” before he rose his voice to a more audible volume. “Monsters—ones that used to be people—they lose themselves to their base instincts—they cannot _think_ or _feel_ the way we do. They are mindless things that seek to strike fear into all that they can. I will _not_ become that.”

“It’s in both our best interests that you don’t,” Peter agreed. He heaved a heavy sigh and slumped back into his throne. He waved a dismissive hand at Elias. “Go attend to your monster, Elias. Leave me to myself.”

“He’s not a monster. Not yet,” Elias said. He gave Peter a grin, sharp and cold, before he inclined his head and left, leaving only silence in his wake.

Peter closed his eyes and let the quiet wash over him. He was alone again, isolated from any form of life, utterly forsaken.

It was _wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes the prologue. I've got big plans >:3c
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! If you liked this fic, please comment, kudos, and bookmark!
> 
> Until next time!


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 here we go!!
> 
> Thank you all so much for giving comments and kudos! I really appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> A light warning for angst and an unhealthy coping mechanism about caring for others (it's Martin, so that's a bit of a given, though).
> 
> Happy reading!

Funerals were not commonplace in the kingdom of Solum, for they required someone to care a great deal about whoever had departed. Very few people even considered organizing one and almost no one actually bothered going through with it. After all, it took time and effort and money to put together something like that, and for what? A few hours of remembrance for one or two people? No, those resources were better spent on food and work, things that would keep a person alive. Besides, it was much easier to simply wait for the body collectors to come by as they did every week and foist the corpse upon them—they’d take care of it, tossing the lifeless things somewhere outside of the city for scavengers to pick at.

Martin didn’t have the money for a funeral, but he would  _ make _ the time and put in the effort to dig a grave for his mother.

Martin was no fool—he knew that his mother had never been grateful to him, never been happy with him, never loved him. He wished that she had, wanted it more desperately than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He’d have given anything for her, just to make her happy, for her to care about him even a  _ little. _

But she didn’t. And now she was dead.

Martin choked on another sob as he drove the shovel into the damp earth below him. He’d been up since dawn, unsure of how long it would take to dig a grave. By now, the sun was high in the sky, its warm light obscured by the hazy clouds that seemed to blanket the kingdom. The old rags that he’d wrapped around his hands offered little protection, his hands still blistered and  _ burning _ when they slid against the handle and the shaft of the shovel. The pains and aches of his body mingled with the grief and despair that tore at his heart, creating an agonizing symphony inside of him that bubbled over until he was crying so hard that he could barely see the ground in front of him.

He couldn’t stop, though. His mother deserved a proper burial, deep enough that any animals and the elements would not touch her. It would be his last gift to her, just as considerate and meaningless as all of the others had been.

Finally, too soon and too late all at the same time, Martin found himself standing in the bottom of a hole a maybe almost a meter and a half deep and about just as long. His body was shaking, hands trembling and legs weak. He leaned all of his weight onto his shovel, hands frantically gripping at it even though it hurt to do so, desperate not to fall over. His sobs had died down to dry gasps, now; he no longer had any tears left to shed, even if he was unsure that he’d ever truly stop crying.

The world was a bit darker now, evening only just now setting in slow and cool around him, the wind stinging at what little wetness was left on his cheeks. Martin scrubbed haphazardly at his face, replacing water with earth. He forced himself to take deep breaths, to ignore the way his vision blurred around the edges, to regain his balance. It took a good while—too long, far too long—but he was able to center himself, his breath less shallow and only somewhat propping himself up with the shovel. He swallowed, his throat thick and sore, before he clambered out of the grave. He dragged himself out, using the shovel as a cane. He dropped it back down into the bottom of the grave, too tired to care about how it landed. He vaguely hoped that the shabby thing hadn’t broken from the fall.

It was with great effort and infinite gentleness that he picked up his mother’s corpse, wrapped in her blanket and her face more peaceful than Martin had ever seen. He wondered what it said about him that he was happy that she would at least find some kind of rest in death.

He could usually carry his mum without any trouble, had done so for years ever since she had grown too sick to walk by herself. But now, as exhausted and sore as he was, it was a challenge. He found himself slipping and stumbling, threatening to pitch over into the grave. It would have been easier to simply drop her body in. Martin refused to do such a thing.

He reached the bottom of the grave, chest heaving as he fought for breath. He was careful but quick to lay the body down, taking great pains to treat her as though she was merely asleep. He smoothed the hair from her face one last time, cloth-wrapped hands smearing dirt on her forehead as he did. Martin was briefly overcome with the need to find a way to wipe it away but he stomped it down. She would soon be covered and filled with earth—a small streak wouldn’t matter.

Allowing himself one final indulgence, Martin pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, her skin cold and dry. He pulled away and found that he had a few more tears in him, after all.

He groped about for the shovel, drawing in a sharp breath through his teeth and his blistered hand closed around it. He pulled himself from the grave once again, just as weak and hollow as when he had started. Once he was out, Martin looked at his mother one last time, frantically trying to commit how she looked to memory.

Martin shoved his shovel into the dirt that he had dug up, crying out weakly as his blisters were pressed into once again. He lifted the soil and moved the shovel so that the blade hung above the grave. Martin tilted the shovel, the dirt falling from it in a cascade of brown earth and landing quietly atop his mother’s corpse.

Martin choked down a sob, throat burning, and took up another shovelful of earth.

He was finished by the time the sun was beginning to set, dangerously close to collapsing where he stood and back to leaning fully on the shovel.

_ Words, _ he thought,  _ I should say something. A good-bye. _

It wouldn’t matter to his mother. Even if she had been alive, she wouldn’t have cared.

Martin opened his mouth to say something. To thank his mother for giving him life, for not chasing him out of her life entirely. To talk about how he missed the father that he couldn’t remember, lament how he had left the two of them to this. Maybe to recite a poem, something poorly crafted and stumbling but meaningful and full of affection.

In the end, all Martin could manage to do was to force out a strangled, “I’m sorry.” His mother would have liked that best, only having to hear his voice form two words.

Martin limped back home. He forced himself not to look back.

It wasn’t a long journey back, not really. He hadn’t gone too far outside of the city and the streets were always quiet, always empty. It still felt as though it took an eternity, uncaring glances sent his way from alleys and windows as went.

It was well and fully dark by the time Martin returned decrepit building that was a home only in name. It was a small and ramshackle thing, not unlike many of the houses in Solum. It was made up of crumbling stone walls and a poorly thatched roof of mud and straw that never did much of anything to keep out the rain. Rotting wooden planks held bound together by rope formed a makeshift door that had long ago fallen off of its hinges and served as a poor buffer to the outside. Martin struggled to push it out of the way and then pull it back into place.

In the dim, he could make out the familiar shapes that made up the inside of his home—the table that was a breath away from collapsing, the old stool with one leg that was too short, the shoddy wooden box where they—he—stored whatever food they managed to save, the dilapidated fireplace, and the single bed in the far corner, now devoid of any blanket. Some far-off part of Martin wished that he’d kept the blanket for himself instead of burying it with his mum, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

He could see his own blanket, more threadbare than his mum’s had been, folded neatly on the table. He should grab it and then stumble onto the bed. That’s what made the most sense.

Martin’s hands closed around the ragged, thin fabric of the blanket. He all but fell to the ground as he lowered himself. He shifted until he found himself curling up in a tight ball on his usual section of the floor. The idea of sleeping in his mum’s bed made his stomach turn.

Martin pillowed his head onto his arms, every part of him buzzing with pain. Sleep did not see fit to claim him for far too long.

* * *

Martin moved very little on the day following the burial of his mother, having neither the will nor the energy to do much more than drag himself to the wooden box and pull out some stale bread and dried meat. He forced himself to eat the food, knowing that his body would not thank him for refusing to do so. It was coarse and ashy on his tongue.

He slipped in and out of sleep throughout the day, never resting deeply or well. By the time the sun was setting again, he’d managed to finish off a little more of the dried meat. There was still some left for a meal, maybe two if his appetite remained at its current level. There were a few potatoes that he could cook, too, so that was something. Regardless, he’d have to go to the markets tomorrow and start looking for some sort of odd-job he could do to scrounge up some money.

It occurred to Martin that he only had to feed himself now. Hot and acrid guilt flooded through him at the relief he felt at the thought.

Tomorrow. He’d go to the markets tomorrow.

He had to take care of himself, if not for himself then for—

Oh.

Right.

Just… for himself, then.

Martin hoped that would be enough.

* * *

Martin woke early in the day, rising just as the sun cleared the horizon. He was used to waking up early, so that he could check on his mum and get breakfast together for her and—

Martin’s gaze landed on the empty bed. The memories cut at him like shards of glass.

He folded his blanket neatly and placed it on the table. He did his best to clean himself up—not that it mattered, really—before he felt around the wall for one particularly loose stone. He pulled it out and grabbed the small pouch sitting there, the coins inside clinking against each other as he shoved the pouch into his pocket. He slid the stone back and headed out.

There were a few more people walking about than there had been two nights ago, though that didn’t surprise Martin. There were always more people out during the day: the nights were far too cold and lonely to want to be conscious for them. It was far better to go about business during the day, in Martin’s opinion. And it seemed that most of the city agreed.

He traveled on the dirt roads that ran through the city, keeping his head down and rolling his shoulders in to make himself as small as possible. He hazily recalled someone—he couldn’t remember who—saying that the roads of Solum used to be cobblestone, carefully placed pieces that were each stunningly unique covering the ground. Martin didn’t know how much truth there was to that, if any. If the roads  _ had _ been cobblestone, they certainly weren’t now and hadn’t been for quite some time.

Soon enough, Martin reached the market square. It was the liveliest place in all of Solum, but that wasn’t saying much. The whole thing was drab and muted, only the sounds of muffled, whispered haggling and shuffling movement breaking the silence. It was too quiet by far for Martin’s tastes, but it still brought a strange, removed sense of calm to him. He always felt so… unseen and unacknowledged. He wasn’t sure that he liked that, exactly, but it was better than being seen. Better than being judged harshly.

Martin pulled out his coin pouch and upended its contents into his hand. Not much, as he had expected, but it would be more than enough to get food for him and his mother. Martin blinked rapidly and swallowed down more tears. 

Well, he’d have a good amount of food for himself, then. Maybe he would even manage to have some leftover coin by the end off it. That had never really happened before.

Martin’s gaze swept over the market, taking in everything that he could, and then he was off, moving from vendor to vendor, their faces only marginally familiar despite the fact that they were here every day. It was all completely impersonal, no one making eye contact and price negotiations utterly dispassionate. It all bled together, one meaningless interaction after another. Before too long he was done, having spent most of what he had on enough food that it would last several days—maybe even a whole week. Martin swallowed thickly, reminding himself that he should… probably double the length of time. Right.

This was going to take some adjusting.

Martin refused to cry in public, even knowing that no one would care. He did his best to clear his head and began to make his way out of the market, slipping past stands and weaving through buyers with practiced ease, just another tiresome routine in his life.

He was only half paying attention to his surroundings when he saw a rushing figure—they were moving too fast for Martin to see them properly—knocked into some poor, older woman. The person didn’t even pause as the old lady fell to the ground and quickly vanished into the crowd. Some people had also taken notice of the scene, but they were all quick to turn away and go about their own business.

Martin stood, frozen, as the woman struggled and failed to get back onto her feet.

He could just walk away. Honestly, he should. And he had to admit that option appealed to a very large part of him, just slipping back into the crowd, leaving this woman, fading into the background.

Another part of him, not as sizeable but so much louder, told him to  _ help. _

Martin quickly closed the short distance between himself and the woman. She was shaking from the effort to get back up onto her feet and looked up in surprise when Martin finally reached her.

Martin cleared his throat. “D-do you, uh, want some help?” His voice was rough and scratchy from disuse. The crying he’d been doing probably didn’t help anything, either.

The woman regarded Martin suspiciously, eyes narrowed into slits and brow furrowed. “What do you want for it?”

“Oh, I don’t… want anything,” Martin said. “This isn’t—I just wanted to know if you would like some help getting up. No… payment or anything, I guess.”

The woman scoffed. “You’re either a liar or a fool.” She held out a hand to him, all the same. 

Martin grabbed it, her skin thin and sagging against his palm. The blisters on his hand sung out in pain, but Martin did not let go. His other hand went under her opposite arm, rest on her shoulder blade for support as he gently, slowly pulled her up off of the ground. Without any real thought, he almost tried to brush some of the dirt from her. He snapped his hand back before he could do it though.

“I-I’ll be on my way then,” Martin stammered, taking a step away from her.

The woman stared at him, long and hard, before she scoffed again. “A fool, then. Thank you.”

And then she was gone.

Martin walked home, completely forgetting about his intent to look for some form of work and not really processing anything around him. The woman had thanked him. Martin couldn’t remember the last time someone had thanked him.  _ Had _ anyone ever thanked him? Martin couldn’t actually remember anyone expressing gratitude to him before today.

… Martin liked it. He liked it a lot more than he thought he should.

It felt…  _ warm. _ It rose up in his chest, softer than any blanket he’d ever owned and as cozy as sitting next to a fire. It was so  _ different _ from the empty, cold sensation that usually gnawed at him.

It wasn’t happiness, that Martin was sure of, but he thought it was probably the closest that he’d even gotten to it.

Maybe… maybe he could try to do something like that again. It felt  _ right _ to help others, to take on the role of a caretaker. And if he did it with other people… they might thank him. They might even  _ appreciate _ him, if only for a moment.

When Martin finally reached his home, it was with a bit more of a bounce to his step and a plan swimming in his head.

* * *

Martin went to the market every morning for the next week, though he didn’t buy anything. No, he was there to just… help people.

He only did small things, really. He would pick up something someone dropped and hand it back to them, say a short, “excuse me” instead of forcing his way past, or politely step aside to give someone else more room. He had even stopped someone from crashing into the ground, once. The poor man had tripped over  _ something _ and Martin had been close and quick enough to keep him on his feet. The man had looked  _ terrified _ at first but Martin was fast to reassure him that he had just reacted instinctively and that he wasn’t looking for any sort of favor, he promised.

He had smiled at Martin, so faint that it was hardly there, and had said, “Thanks.”

Martin had simply stood there, dumb and dazed, for  _ far _ too long. A smile. Someone had  _ smiled _ at him. The warm fullness was so much  _ stronger _ this time than it had been before, the feeling so  _ much _ that Martin was afraid he might cry. But he wasn’t  _ sad. _ The emotions he felt were just filling him up to the brim, threatening to overflow into something wet and—and—

And happy.

There was absolutely no going back for Martin after that.

He wanted to do more, to help more people in more ways. He took on odd-jobs around the market more often, sometimes insisting on not being paid at all. The vendors were confused by that, but they never questioned it. And two or three of them were even  _ grateful. _ None of them had smiled at him, but that was alright. Just knowing that he’d been of use to them in some way left Martin feeling content.

Because of the increase in jobs he took and the—death of his mum (he could almost think about it without wanting to cry, now), Martin found himself with more coin than he had ever had in his entire life. It wasn’t much, not really, but just knowing that he had some money tucked away that he could actually  _ save up _ would nearly bring a smile to Martin’s face.

He had nearly reached the fourth week of his daily quest in the markets before he found a new way to help people, one that he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t already considered.

Martin was making his way past a line of vendors when he heard a conversation rise above the low, whispered murmurings of the market.

“Please, just lower the price,” a woman asked—no,  _ begged. _ “I don’t have any more that I can offer you and I  _ need _ it.”

“I don’t really see how that’s my problem,” the vendor drawled, his voice flat and uninterested. “I’ve told you the price. Either you can pay it or you can move along.”

Martin couldn’t hold his tongue. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching them in a couple of strides, “can I ask what she’s trying to buy?”

The woman looked startled and panicked at that.

The vendor shrugged. “Medicine. An herbal remedy for hay fever. Wanted enough of a dosage for a child.”

Martin’s heart  _ ached _ at that. “Right. How much?”

“No!” the woman shrieked. “You can’t have it! How could you—”

“It’s a crown,” the vendor interjected.

Martin shook his head. “That’s practically theft. Something like that is worth maybe two shillings, if that.”

“A crown is a fair price.”

“It’s not. I’ll give you two shillings for it.”

“Four shillings and a sixpence.”

“No. Two shillings.”

The vendor squinted at Martin. “Four shillings.”

“I won’t go any higher than three.”

The vendor glared for a bit longer. “Three and a sixpence.”

“No.”

The vendor sneered. “Fine. Three shillings.”

The woman looked ready to cry as Martin took out three shillings and the vendor handed him a vial of soft green liquid.

Martin did his best to smile at her, though he was sure he didn’t get the expression quite right. He held out the vial towards her. “Here. For you.”

The woman and vendor both looked completely floored.

Martin shifted the hand clutching the vial towards her a bit more. “You needed this, right? For your child? They shouldn’t go without it.”

With shaking hands, the woman took the vial from Martin’s hand. She placed it in her pocket with disbelieving reverence before she looked up at Martin again. Her eyes were misty. “Th-thank you. I can’t—I can’t even begin to—”

“It’s fine,” Martin said. He knew that his smile was morphing into something more real now. “I’m just glad that I could help.”

The woman nodded jerkily, one last thanks falling from her lips, and then she was running off. Martin lost sight of her fairly quickly.

“That was a damn stupid thing to do,” the vendor said. “You’ll never see her again and she sure as hell won’t return the favor, even if she had the means to do so.”

“I know,” Martin said. His face ached pleasantly from how hard he was smiling.

Martin took to helping various people with whatever they were purchasing, after that; food, medicine, blankets, even soap every once in a while. He had to be careful with overspending, though. There were some days where he lost track and realized that he’d have to stretch out his own food for a little longer than was strictly optimal, but that was okay. He never really went hungry, not truly. He was eating better than he had in a long time, actually. Another consequence of actually having some money.

So maybe things weren’t going  _ great _ and maybe there was a huge part of Martin that still hurt. And, sure, maybe it was pretty pathetic that he still couldn’t bring himself to actually sleep in his mum’s bed, but he was  _ helping. _ So what if it wasn’t making much of a difference? It was still  _ something. _

It was all Martin had left to cling to.

It had to be enough.

It had to.

* * *

“Someone trying to spread kindness?”

“Yes, you know the type. The ones who think that their actions might mean something to someone, if only for a brief while. We’ve dealt with people like  _ that _ before.”

“I suppose you’re right. And your suggestion?”

“Wait him out a bit. He’s grieving for a mother who never loved him and trying to reaffirm his self-worth through helping others. It’s all rather trite, really. He’ll realize soon enough just how worthless he is and his pain will be all the worse for it.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll be sure to take care of him like I always do, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that concludes the second installment of this fic! Next chapter should be a bit more light-hearted.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and bookmarks are love and they mean a lot to me and keep me inspired.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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